


First

by Viscariafields



Series: Leandra Hawke [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, two dummies in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: A month ago, with the help of too much wine, Fenris had laid out his whole life story, ending it by artlessly stumbling his way toward proposing romance. Of a sort. Between them. At a later date.Not that he even knew how to do that.He had never—he had never even kissed anyone. Not that he remembered, anyway.~~Hawke comes to visit and Fenris decides to kiss her.  It goes pretty well.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Leandra Hawke [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462840
Comments: 21
Kudos: 91





	First

“I have a present for you,” Hawke said in lieu of a greeting. She was standing outside his door, one hand still in the air poised to knock, dark lips stretched wide over perfect, white teeth, and the door opening as if by its own accord.

Her smile was infectious. “Not more wine?” he asked, eyeing her pack, “I have not finished the last.”

“No. But it is related.” She led him through his own home, talking all the while. “I thought to myself, why is it Fenris, who has brilliant manners, shockingly polite, really, never offers me any wine when I come to visit? It couldn’t possibly be because I’m an uninvited guest and he wants me to take the hint, no.”

“Of course not.”

“Right. So I thought long and hard and realized that you must not have any cups.” She dropped her bag on his table. “So I brought cups.”

She took them out one by one with a smile over the shoulder for him. An invitation to pour the wine, and he uncorked the half bottle left over from last time. Hawke grinned from ear to ear as he offered her one of her cups. “Should I expect more company?” he asked, gesturing at the rest.

She sat down in the chair next to his preferred seat–and when had he even invited her to stay– and responded, “I figure it’s only a matter of time before your winning personality draws more guests than just me.”

After a roll of the eyes, he made himself comfortable, stretching his legs out before him. He felt Hawke watching, and perhaps he made the stretch last longer on purpose, flexing his toes before settling. He caught her eyes flicking up to his face— _unsubtle, Hawke—_ and hid his grin in his cup, lifting it to his lips. It was strange to enjoy being admired. Hers wasn’t the titillated, fear-laced examinations of the magisters or even the lascivious scrutiny of Isabela. When Hawke looked at him, there was something simpler in her gaze—she _liked_ looking at him. It made her happy. And it made him feel an unfamiliar sort of satisfaction that he could elicit that happiness.

Talking made her happy as well, particularly at length, while sitting in his mansion. After a couple of years of this, he had to admit that it made him happy, too. Or at least, he assumed that was the feeling that had him anticipating her knock, dropping whatever he was doing to greet her at the door. A month ago, with the help of too much wine, _he_ had been the one talking her tiny human ears off, laying out his whole life story and ending it by artlessly stumbling his way toward proposing romance. Of a sort. Between them. At a later date.

Not that he even knew how to do that.

He had never—he had never even kissed anyone. Not that he remembered, anyway.

It had been difficult since then to listen to what she had to say with any care. Not when he was considering what it would feel like to run his thumb over her lips or how his name might sound gasped into his ear.

Today she talked of exotic flowers in the Hightown market while he eyed her lovely throat and sipped his wine to stop himself from thinking of what it might taste like. When she shifted the topic to her plans for tomorrow, hinting that she would like his company, he tore his eyes away from her. He would go, of course, but only after feigning disinterest and allowing her the satisfaction of having persuaded him. He liked to watch her gloat. “I thought after the Deep Roads you would avoid going underground for some time.”

Her expression turned dark for a moment, and he cursed himself for the verbal misstep. She recovered quickly. “It _has_ been some time. And anyway, Elvhen ruins are completely different. The first was built by dwarves and is full of darkspawn. The other was built by elves.”

“And is full of demons.”

“Exactly. Completely different.”

He shook his head.

“My logic is flawless,” she responded, “And I defy you to challenge it.”

“You are a ridiculous woman.”

Her cup slammed onto the table, wine sloshing over the side. “Well you’re an absurd man!”

Fenris choked on a laugh, trying to pass it off as a simple clearing of the throat. “You misunderstand me,” he said, pouring her the rest of the wine as an act of contrition, “I did not mean it as an insult.”

“Oh. Mine was… definitely meant as an insult.” The second half of her sentence was spoken directly into her refilled cup.

“What I meant to say—what I want to say is that I have never met anyone like you. Someone with your talents, skill, and courage is wasted on this cesspool of a city.”

She waved away his flattery. “I suppose that could mean I’m wonderful, but it sounds more like Kirkwall is just shit. And it might be, given the haunted Elvhen ruins under Hightown. And, you know, everything else. But nobody forced you to stay here, you know.” 

Fenris nodded. Having that choice to stay was part of the appeal of the city. The rest of the appeal was sitting on the chair next to his. “Upon arriving to the city, I met someone remarkable who helped me when she did not have to. I was ready to stop running, and I thought a place that shaped a woman such as her must be worthy.” He leaned back in his chair and finished his drink, a long draught that did nearly nothing to slake his thirst. “I was misled.”

“Careful, Fenris. You’re dangerously close to sounding like you admire me.”

“Yes,” he nodded, feeling that familiar tension building in the space between them, prickling his skin and causing his heart to pound, “I suppose that is what I sound like.”

She blinked, her eyelashes fluttering, but his gaze dropped to her lips. His lack of romantic experience was starting to irk him. Isabela made it look so easy to simply lean over and place her mouth on another’s. Perhaps he should have responded to her advances and practiced. He had simply never known he would want to kiss someone. Now, staring at Hawke’s lips, was not the time to lament his lack of foresight. Now was the time to plunge forward into the unknown.

His focus wasn’t unnoticed. Never one for silence, Hawke had opened her mouth to fill it, but on catching his gaze, she expelled her prepared breath, whatever words she had in mind lost to the evening. There would never be an opportunity more obvious than this, her eyes black and shining in his dim room, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted. He leaned toward her until he was close enough to feel her breath on his skin.

“May I?” he asked.

Her answer came out in a whisper. “Yes.”

He pressed his lips to hers and felt a sharp thrill as she pressed back. He wasn’t sure what to do next, to advance or retreat, but Hawke held him there, a gentle hand sliding to cradle his jaw. Each movement brought a new sensation, and he was surprised how much he enjoyed this touch, her lips slowly moving with his. The tension held between them now seemed to ball in his stomach. He had thought it would be a simple thing, to touch his lips to hers and pull away. But now that she was here, he wanted nothing more than to pull her closer. For the first time, Fenris wanted to be touched, craved it, dreaded Hawke pulling away and ending this.

She didn’t pull away. She took her time, first with her lips on his in movements he tried to mirror. Then her tongue. When she took his lower lip between her teeth, he groaned into her mouth. The markings, so sensitive he avoided being touched at all, felt electric as her lips brushed his chin. He wasn’t aware of his hands having left his side until one of them was tangled in her hair. The other gripped her back, pulling her ever closer. He wanted to _feel_ her, for her to feel him, and Hawke obliged. One arm thrown around his shoulder, one hand splayed across his back, she pressed herself to him, a welcome pressure against his chest. His mouth parted for her under her gentle ministrations and her tongue found his. Fenris didn’t know what he was doing, but it felt _good_. What started as tentative and unsure, a simple kiss meant to make plain his affection for her was now a passionate embrace, heated, consuming. He could explore her mouth for hours, for _days_. He wanted to.

He was not so bold as to take it further than that. Not yet. 

The kiss ended, as all first kisses must. When they finally pulled away from each other, just enough to take a breath, Fenris registered that Hawke was practically sitting in his lap. He felt a moment of dread, unsure if that was too much, or not enough, or just wrong somehow, but Hawke was grinning, gaze cast downward at nothing in particular. He had never seen a person more beautiful, and he felt a tightening in his heart an overwhelming feeling of—of what he couldn’t name. But he wanted her here, in his arms, and he hadn’t known how much he wanted it until it was happening.

Fenris reached out to rub a thumb over Hawke’s flushed cheek, his nervousness forgotten as she met his eyes.

Her smile faltered. “I—” Hawke started, wavering on her next words before closing her eyes, leaning into his hand. She turned away with a small huff of breath, not quite a laugh. “Well,” she said, hand smoothing over her disheveled hair, “You certainly don’t do anything by halves.”

Fenris didn’t know what to say to that. It was unclear if there was approval in her words. His perplexity turned to dismay when she extricated herself from him, his body turning cold in the space she had previously occupied.

“Thank you for the lovely evening,” she said, carefully not looking at him, “We simply must do it again.”

“You’re leaving?” he asked as she reached for her coat.

“Yes,” she replied, “I think I must. I think leaving is the only thing to do now, because I think, from here, nothing better can happen than what just happened, so everything from here must be worse. And really the only outcome is I say something stupid or do something stupid and you regret all this.” She walked toward the door as she babbled, Fenris following behind her. “And if you regret all this, that makes it less likely it will happen again, and then I’d be forced to regret all this. And that would be a tragedy. Varric would be forced to write a tragic ballad or something. So I think the only way to avoid mistakes is to go before I make mistakes.” 

Ah, Hawke’s attempts at logic. Here, at least, Fenris was on solid ground. He deftly stabbed through her argument, noting with some satisfaction that she did, in fact, want him to kiss her again. “What if leaving is a mistake?”

She turned to him at that, eyes wide in indignation. He could see her puzzling it out, already so close to his door, and he took a step toward her, observing how his proximity was crumbling her resolve. “It certainly feels like a mistake, doesn’t it?” she murmured more to herself than to him. Her expression softened. “You have something,” she said, reaching out with her thumb, “Just there.” She rubbed at the corner of his mouth, probably her own rouge on him, and even that simple touch stoked the fire she was trying and failing to put out. He caught her wrist to stop himself from taking her thumb between his lips. One kiss was not enough, not when she was looking at him like that.

“You could stay,” Fenris offered. Her eyes widened as he realized the implications of his words. And whatever Fenris wanted, he was not ready to take that step. He dropped her hand. “And talk,” he amended, “Or…”

“Right.” She nodded. “Talk, yeah, but also no. That sort of verbal ambiguity right there is exactly—” she paused, scanning his face— "the reason I need to go.”

“Should I improve my elocution?”

“I’m not sure that’s even possible.”

Whatever her reasons for wanting to leave, Fenris felt himself losing this argument. He frowned, knowing his disappointment was foolish, knowing that he would see her tomorrow, and the day after, and now that he had kissed her once, it would be easier to do it again, simpler to close that gap between them and take her in his arms.

For someone intent on leaving, she was doing a poor job of it.

“Don’t—” she took a step closer to him, just shy of actually touching him— “Don’t look at me like that, because I will kiss you again.” A weak threat, and he might have said so if she ever stopped talking. “And,” she continued, taking his hand and rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, “I won’t want to stop. I’ll kiss you until the sun rises and you’ll get bored of it, I know it.”

“I don’t think _that’_ s possible.”

She raised his hand to her mouth and tentatively pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Fenris closed his eyes, tension knotting inside of him, his heart tightening once again. This small act was so much sweeter than the hungry kiss they shared, and he wanted to call her bluff, hold her in his arms and find out what else there was he didn’t know he wanted.

“I can’t risk it,” she said, though she made no move to drop his hand. She wavered mere inches away, and when she spoke again, her nose was just touching his. “I’m not sure I have the— _you_ have to be the strong one. You have the arms for it. Promise not to kiss me until tomorrow?”

Fenris leaned his forehead against hers, smiling. “I promise to kiss you tomorrow.”

She laughed, her shoulders shaking with it. “That is _not_ what I asked. But I’ll hold you to it just the same.”

Still she lingered in his foyer. He was not going to encourage her to go. They stood in the dark, his hand still in hers, foreheads pressed together, at an impasse. And even this, whatever this was, stupid and close and impossible, Fenris wanted it. Outside, the chantry bells tolled.

“Was that—” Hawke inhaled slowly— "Was that the midnight bell?”

Fenris’s grin spread slowly across his face. In truth, he had no idea what time it was. “I believe it was,” he replied, bringing his hand up to cup her jaw. 

“Oh” was her simple reply.

He could not say who moved first. They simply moved, their lips finding each other, finding a rhythm. He held her properly this time, flush against his chest. She fit there well, he thought. Then her lips were on his throat and Fenris had very few coherent thoughts after that.

It was hours later when they finally exited the foyer, Hawke stumbling outside with her hair in a hopeless tangle, Fenris trudging to bed. He caught his reflection in the window, his own hair unkempt, the red smudge of Hawke’s rouge across his chin. It was his expression that most startled him, however, as he rubbed his face clean. More than pleased, he looked happy. At ease. Perhaps a little sleepy. It was a strange thought for him, the hope that he could be happy. Lying in bed, for the first time he wondered what it would be like to sleep next to another, to feel safe outside of his carefully built solitude, to have Hawke resting on his arm or chest. As he drifted off to sleep, he could almost imagine it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, Fenris didn't get to be a teenager. Let him make out with Hawke for way too long in a random location. 
> 
> I'm gonna say they get attacked by slavers like three days after this. You know, let them have a couple days of giddy idiocy. Then it's time to blow up the relationship.


End file.
